


The Blonde Who Fooled Me: On Wages, a Car Wash, and a Wily Babysitter

by Meriah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blonde, Car Wash - Freeform, Childhood, Deception, Foolishness, Gen, Revenge, babysitter, hot babysitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:38:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meriah/pseuds/Meriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[COMEDY] My babysitter from the summer of 1996 owes me twenty dollars. This is why...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blonde Who Fooled Me: On Wages, a Car Wash, and a Wily Babysitter

**The Blonde Who Fooled Me:  
On Wages, a Car Wash, and a Wily Babysitter**

 

 

Claire sprawled out on the reclining lawn chair with a Pepsi in hand. Her golden hair was positioned into a sloppy bun, oily from the relentless humidity and countless encounters with hairspray. It was sometime in July of 1996, far too hot to be outside under the hellish sun. But it was also an opportunity for her to attempt to tan.

 

With a sigh of boredom – she was among the last generation of teenagers free from cell phones – she looked at the road, the thirsty lawns, and the houses sprinkled between trees. I, on the other hand, went under a maple tree for shade. It broke some heat, but the mugginess still coiled around me like a python.

 

The sun cut across the yard in blinding white streaks. With a curse, Claire put on her sunglasses. Then her bronzed legs stretched, their color multiple shades darker than her face. Meanwhile, my cotton dress clung against me damp with sweat.

 

Claire was my babysitter for that one summer, and I could sense the displeasure was mutual. At the age of seventeen, her interests did not reflect mine and those of the other children. She labeled us to be immature; we branded her as superficial.

 

“I'm _bored_ and it's too _hot_ out,” I moaned. With limited energy, I pointed at the pool in the center of the backyard.  


“You can't go swimming, deal with it,” Claire barked before sipping her beverage. Then she emphasized with sarcasm, “Blame Richie. He's grounded which in turn means all of you can't swim. Sorry.”  


My angry eyes fell on Richie, the oldest of the children under Claire's supervision. A self-proclaimed ninja, Richie always pioneered new ways to be grounded: jumping from the garage roof; diving into the pool during a lightning storm; bouncing off the trampoline into bushes. Shockingly, I never saw him in a cast or sling. He and his quiet sister, Rebecca, were my neighbors. My brother Brian and I did not create friendships with them, but that summer we did have an alliance – and Claire was the enemy.

 

Time melted by that day. I turned to my brother to ask for a guess at the current hour, but even he was at a loss. Then unexpectedly, a car entered the driveway full of teenage girls similar to Claire with their tans and cotton candy-colored nails. A brunette approached us in a bikini top paired with mini shorts, her waistline carved into an hourglass and her legs sharp with definition. She was followed by three other life-sized Barbies. Although young, I immediately analyzed my body. A crooked expression of disgust formed on my mouth as I noticed my protruding stomach and flabby thighs. “Well, nevermind running inside to change into a bathing suit. Sweat to death,” stated the tyrant in my mind.

 

The teenage clique giggled and chatted for a few minutes. Then Claire announced with a flash of white teeth, “Let's have a car wash!”

 

One of the boys asked, “A car wash? For what?”  


“Well, you all look so miserable out here and I do want to work on my tan. So how about this: you kids all wash cars. You'll make decent money, and you'll get nice and cool from the hose.”

 

“That's an awesome idea! I'm up for it!” I exclaimed. In that tender stage of childhood innocence, I imagined that to possess even five dollars meant a fortune. “I can finally buy a pony!”

 

Claire said, “Well, maybe not a pony, but certainly other things. Just wash the cars. I'll hold onto the money, you know, to do the math and stuff. Then I'll split it between all of you at the end of the day. Deal?”

 

We chirped in unison, “Deal!”

 

How ignorant we were.

 

We four children washed vehicles for the remaining afternoon. Rebecca advertized at the front of the driveway with the sign “CAR WASH” scribbled in Crayola markers. Meanwhile, the boys and I smiled as we trailed sponges over glass, plastic and metal in white foam. We were certain not to miss a single inch. Then we hosed the vehicles plus each other, savoring the water to counter the heat.

 

The owner of a Lincoln Continental studied our precision. From within the vehicle, he revealed a container of wet wipes and proceeded to clean his windows. He ran numerous wipes over the glass, repeating the procedure if any streaks taunted him. I granted him special treatment as I aimed my washing on the outside of the windshield, reluctantly making contact with smeared bird excrement. He then maneuvered into the back seat to focus on the rear window.

 

The outside was finished as he crawled to the front. However, he was determined to have a showroom quality Lincoln. He reached between nooks and crannies for orphaned things – coins, lighters, pens – to set in the console. Then he declared, “You do great work, kids.” He fumbled with his pants pocket for his wallet. “Who do I pay?”

 

“Oh, her,” Richie said as he pointed at Claire.

 

“Her? But she's just sitting there.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Richie snorted.

 

“Well here, then. I have to get going anyway. Give it to her when you have the chance,” the man said. He passed the money to Richie. The boy stood there, his thumbs caressing the money, appearing lost in thought – did he want to pocket it? Finally, Richie walked over to the babysitter with the dollars shining bright green in his hands. She praised him, then slipped the reward into her purse before continuing to discuss adolescent nonsense with her friends.

 

From the start to end of the car wash, men affirmed that our sales skills were as polished as the chrome of their hubcaps – in other words, impeccable. Women cooed that we were adorable.

 

Our parents were to be home soon. Proud of our work ethic, we tidied up by coiling the hose, returning buckets to the garage, and placing rags in the hamper.

 

“Awesome job, kids!” exclaimed one of the teenage girls in a thick valley girl accent. “Like seriously, totally awesome!”

 

“Yeah, you all did great! But the thing is...” Claire said in a low voice. She dropped her head. “Well, look. I really need this money. I have something I need to pay right away. But I promise that you'll get paid back soon. Like, in a half hour.”

 

When pressured for an explanation, Claire stated that she owed money to a friend at the local Burger King, about ten minutes away through taking the main road. Her blue eyes fell over us with apparent sincerity.

 

“Fine, whatever, I guess” Brian said.

 

“Cool, thanks. And I'll bring you kids back something tasty from Burger King. My own money – my treat!” She caressed the stack of cash between her hands like pressed petals, inhaling the scents of paper and ink. She granted the same attention as a man to his concubine - something that represented prestige, opportunity, and ultimately acted as a doorway to sins. George Washington's face stared back at her with disapproval - liars and deceivers were not what he wanted of his fore-children - but she cast him side, noting history was never an interest of hers. The money was not her own, but rather something taken from the dedicated work of children under her care... _and she knew it!_ Hired as a caregiver with meager wages, she manipulated those all around with her blue eyes, parted lips, and charm. Yet it was the sweet melody of her voice which was the most powerful, and she convinced the children to unknowingly play her game.

 

Claire entered her car. Two of the girls accompanied her, and within seconds I heard the ignition turn over. I felt somewhat uneasy as I watched the car turn onto the street with the realization that her story may have been a lie. In the meantime, we were left under the care of the brunette bombshell.

 

The children and I glowed with satisfaction as the car wash ended. I emptied buckets, water splashing against bare feet to trail down the driveway in long ribbons. Brian and Rebecca fumbled with wrapping hoses around their lanky arms. Meanwhile, Richie was off on his own again, – the stealth ninja back on the prowl, and somehow flung himself from zip line to tree to the roof of a shed.

 

Then against the moon hung low in the afternoon sky, another car rolled into the driveway. Gravel spun from under the wheels, then finally the engine surrendered to silence. Out stepped Rhoda, the mother of Richie and Rebecca, aromatic with cedar and violet. Yet in that moment, the earthy fragrance submitted to tension. She looked about with shifty eyes and hands on her hips. She asked her daughter, “Where's Claire?”. Then she noticed the strange brunette. “And who the hell are you?!”

 

It was as if the mighty hand of God intervened, for the usual heaving of Claire's vehicle echoed as she turned onto Coldwater Road and into the yard. The car heaved in long sighs, and before Claire could even turn it off, Rhoda was at the window with me by her side. The teenager rolled it down, said nothing, refused to look at her employer. But Rhoda's anger was like cheap liquour – fiery, acidic – and it burned down her throat with the rush of questions.

 

Claire spurted something about a headache, that the relentless heat beat her, and waved some aspirin from the glove compartment. But Rhoda was a sixteen-year-old once herself, already having learned the game of manipulation and, in her words, “not falling for that shit.”

 

The blonde must have felt the pangs of regret, for her eyes were cast low at the steering wheel. I caught a glimpse of parted lips and a rising chest reflecting in the mirror. She braced herself, then finally exited the car. Yet her gaze remained far away and distant as if caught in a daydream.

 

Rhoda tapped her foot. Her fists were clenched.

 

Cindy stammered. Her mouth locked shut as she shifted her weight onto one leg. But finally she confessed, “Listen, Rhoda... I don't have the money.” The aura of mystery hung in the air as I learned that things can stay unanswered, left to the thoughts for resolutions.

 

The brunette bombshell stood there, silent as if to melt into the vista, as she watched her friend get reprimanded.

 

“So you're telling me that the kids worked out here all day, then you took their money?!” Rhoda's clenched fists became firmer until they burned scarlet.

 

There was no way to counter the statement. Claire was at a loss for words.

 

At that point, Rhoda demanded for Claire to speak with her in private. They went into the house. The door slammed shut with a loud clang as if to symbolize the turmoil.

 

A few minutes later, Claire returned to the outside world. She drove Brian and I back to our house. My brother and I were stung with the nausea of deception in our stomachs; Claire shuddered with guilt.

 

I ignored any recognition from Claire as I went inside my house. Brian did the same.

 

That is the last I can recall of the event. However, Claire was discovered in her car from what was retold to me. I imagine she appeared frail with her legs pressed against her frame and her head shielded within her arms.

 

When our mother arrived, she saw the teenager with tears and mascara-stained cheeks. After the confession was given, Claire was granted mercy; she could keep her summer job but with consequences: First, she was to go without pay for a week. Second, she was to pay back the money that rightfully belonged to the other children and I.

 

To this day, I have never received the money earned through soap and water out in the blazing July sun. Sitting here now, I wonder what would happen if I were to find Claire on Facebook... and send to her over private message: “Hey, remember me? I'm that little girl you babysat in the summer of 1996. About that carwash - you still owe me $20. Plus interest.”


End file.
